I am sick. I’ve been in bed all weekend. Since we’re both sick, I don’t get any sympathy.
The sick grapes on the chair by the bed lie prone; at the window
The tassel of the blind swings gently, tapping the pane,
As a little wind comes in.
The room is the hollow rind of a fruit, a gourd
Scooped out and dry, where a spider,
Folded in its legs as in a bed,
Lies on the dust, watching where is nothing to see but twilight and walls.
Poem by D.H. Lawrence, Malade
I hate having bad dreams. Usually, I can tell them to go away but still they sneak up on me. I know subconsciously we learn to master our fears through dreaming. I know too, just as planes crash and cities get buried under mud, sometimes nightmares are real. They scare me.
Slideshow: Don’t Let the Bed Bugs Bite (eMedicineHealth.com)
Night Terrors Resource Center (NightTerrors.org)
I was like a social worker for lepers. My clients had a chunk of their body they wanted to give away; for a price I was there to receive it. Crimes, sins, nightmares, hunks of hair: it was surprising how many of them has something to dispose of. The more I charged, the easier it was for them to breathe freely once more.
Quotation from Tama Janowitz, Slaves of New York